Left 4 Dead 2: Seven Hundred and Thirty
by hidden-in-a-tree
Summary: This is my suicide note and also my confession. Oneshot. Tragedy. Nick/Ellis. Slash.


**Author's Note:** Oneshot. Tragedy. Nick/Ellis. Slash.

**Disclaimer:** Don't own 'em.

**Acknowledgements: **Thanks be to Sean for reading and editing. Another thank you to Amanda as well.

**Summary:** This is my suicide note and also my confession.

**Seven Hundred and Thirty**

To whom it may concern,

Wow. What a way to start a note. Especially this one. "To whom it may concern." Not even a name. I can't address this to Rochelle or Coach; I have no fucking clue where they are. I have no family to speak of, no friends. It's just me. Maybe if I'd had someone I wouldn't be in this position right now. It's impossible to say.

I stumbled across this online a few days ago. It rang a bell with me, from high school I think: "There's a divinity that shapes our ends, / Rough-hew them how we will." Hamlet. I never understood a damn word when we read it in class. Now it makes too much sense. I don't want to think about the meaning. I want to hold on to hope that if things had been different, if I'd acted in a different way, I wouldn't be here now, sitting in front of a computer typing this. I can dream, right? Somehow believe that maybe I could've had a better life, that I wasn't destined to survive while he didn't and that I would inevitably follow him into the unknown before long. Maybe I'm wrong, but what does Shakespeare know anyway? It's not like he's still relevant nowadays.

That was my attempt at sarcasm. It probably doesn't translate well via this paper medium but oh well. An attempt at humor for you, dear reader, because maybe this is a somber occasion and you need a reason to smile. However, how the hell do I know. I probably don't even know you. A police officer or a fireman, someone impersonal. You'll glance sadly at my corpse, shake your head and say, "What a shame." Then you'll move on.

I couldn't.

I couldn't move past a death that quickly. You don't know me so why would you truly care about my demise? That's understandable, not keeping me at the forefront of your mind. But what about those you love? Those you would kill for, die for? Someone who died for you. How do you move past that? Tell me. I'd love to hear it. I've tried everything. Counselors, psychologists, sleeping aids, alcohol, gambling (again). Absolutely nothing helped. From those trained to assist me, they said time would work its magic, make me feel whole again. They said it would get worse before it got better. They were wrong: it's only gotten worse. Two years have passed.

It shocks me to write that. Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days. I honestly don't know how I've lasted this long. It's incredible to think that something that's paralyzed my mind, made me immobile, happened two years ago. How has time kept going? Why didn't it freeze? How could I have lived this long?

It feels impossible. It feels wrong, like I've made a mistake in writing that. It's been two years but the pain is still just as fresh as it was when it happened. How? That's all I can ask. How? None of this feels right. It's a mistake I've had to live with for this long and I don't know how I managed. I guess in reality I haven't managed well. Every day I live in day dreams, trying to push myself backwards in time. I want to erase what I've done, fix it somehow, and no matter how impossible it is, no matter how many times I tell myself it can't be done, I still try anyways.

While everyone tries to rebuild Savannah and their lives, their families, I sit in my darkened apartment, the lights all off and the curtains drawn. That's all I do. I day dream. I run through past conversations I had with him. I retread old paths, place myself back in my memories because they're all I have to hold on to. I am ashamed that I couldn't move past what had happened. I'm ashamed that I couldn't be stronger, that I've been reduced to this when I said that I hadn't come this far to die now. What words. I feel wretched when I think of them. Full of life – I used to be that way. I fought for what I believed in; I was someone. I'm just an empty body now. Still warm, still with a beating heart, still thinking, but that's all I do nowadays: think. Think and remember.

Maybe it's because what used to make me alive is gone. Maybe it's the error I made. I don't know. I guess it doesn't really matter at this point, does it? I survived to make it here, a pistol sitting a few feet away that I plan to place to my temple at the end of this letter.

This is my suicide note.

I suppose this is also my confession.

It was on the off-ramp from the bridge. Coach and Rochelle had already bolted down it, waving and shrieking at the helicopter pilot not to abandon them. They didn't have to worry. I tried shouting at them that they were acting like fucking lunatics but I didn't have the strength. My legs were shaking horribly beneath me. I'd spent all my energy crossing the bridge. As I had jumped down from the roof of a vehicle, I'd heard a crack. I'd landed funny. I'd glanced up at Ellis who'd also heard the sound. Our eyes met. We both knew how fucked I was. He came back, put his arm around my waist. He became my crutch.

Right, the off-ramp. We were about halfway down it when the whole damn thing began to shake. It was a Tank and right in front of it was another swarm.

I felt like crying. We were so fucking close and we were about to have the finish line end up being too far away. We'd survived getting out of Savannah, the stupid carnival, the swamp, Witchcentral, and then New Orleans only to be denied salvation right at the God damn end of it all. The finale.

I began to wheeze. I felt my body seizing up. I was suffocating. I knew I couldn't make it. I couldn't push on anymore. I was done. I'd never felt so defeated in my life. It crushed me. I stopped moving and Ellis tried to pull me on but I resisted.

"What are y'doin'?" he'd asked, his voice incredulous.

"I can't," I'd whispered. My voice was choked. Maybe I actually had started to cry.

"Nick –"

"Go," I'd told him. I pushed him away from me but he held on to my waist. He was looking at me distrustfully with his blue eyes. His beyond beautiful blue eyes that were sky blue at one point and then a stormy grey the next. I'd never seen irises like his before.

"No."

"It wasn't a question."

"I know."

I tried pushing him again and once more he held on. I knew we didn't have long.

"I can't. My ankle's too fucked up, I have no energy, this is the end for me. Take your pick. But you have to go. We don't have much time!" I tried shouting, tried sounding tough, like I was sure of what I was saying, but all I could muster was a tired-sounding whimper.

All the while, the hoard was getting closer, the ramp shaking harder than ever.

Ellis took a look over my shoulder and then directly met my gaze. I'll never forget that look. If there's one thing I wish I could've done, it's ask him what he was thinking at that moment. I've narrowed it down to

_I love you._

_I'm sorry._

_Please don't hate me for what I'm about to do._

Maybe it's all three. Maybe it's none of them. Maybe it's

_Forgive me_.

A combination of all. There were so many emotions swirling in his wonderfully blue eyes. I knew he was planning to do something – he was letting go of me – so I quickly grabbed his forearm, my fingers digging in to his flesh.

Slowly, tenderly, he pried my fingers off, all the while holding my gaze.

I think I might've whispered "no," but that's all. If ever there was a moment where I should've said something, that was it. There would be no other chances.

He said something, though.

"Don't make me regret this."

I don't know what else I can say. I survived. Ellis didn't. He pushed me on and tried to give me some time while he took on the infected and the Tank by himself. He died a hero with me hating him. Rochelle and Coach told everyone about how courageous he was while at the refugee camp set up by the military. I couldn't agree.

I needed him. He knew that, too. I never said it directly but he could see it in how I acted. At least I'm sure he knew. How could he not've? Only a complete idiot wouldn't've been able to tell. Then again, this is Ellis I'm talking about. Shit.

I made it obvious that he was all I was living for. And then he threw that away so I could continue on without him. He must've thought that I would move past him, that he wasn't that important to me. Maybe he believed I mattered more to this world than he did. He couldn't be more wrong. No one gives a shit about me. To be fair, in the grand scheme of things, no one matters. But Ellis – he made people happy. He cheered up strangers. Without fail, he was someone's sunshine every day. Me? Right.

He mattered to the world.

Why did he throw it all away? Didn't he realize how much I … how I needed him? It's cliché as shit, but I'll say it again anyways: he was my life after the infection hit. Everyone has that one motivator in their life, the one that keeps them going even when they're running on empty. That was Ellis for you, except he didn't do that just for me. He did it for all the survivors. He cared about all of us, but I know he never stuck his neck out for Rochelle and Coach like he did for me.

I want to say it's because he … cared about me on a deeper level, but how do I know for sure? I guess in that final act, sacrificing himself so I could live, that reveals all. But on what level did he commit it on? Friends? Or … not? I don't know. I wish I'd found out. All that time we'd spent together. Nights where neither of us slept, while we sat there silently thinking our own private thoughts.

What did he think of? Did he wonder how to breach the subject like I did?

I can't even begin to count my regrets in regards to Ellis. There are too many of them to even contemplate. Mistake after mistake after mistake.

I wish I hadn't let him die for me. The world needed him more than it needed me. I haven't done anything for anyone since then. I should've been the one to sacrifice myself. He was young – he could've moved past me.

Instead, I let him do it. He gave me two years.

I'm ungrateful and I know it. I can't feel any other way. Three hundred and seventy days of hell. All for one man thinking he's being brave, like he's making the ultimate sacrifice for something worthwhile. He was fucking wrong. He never gave up like I did. If anyone deserved to die during the final sprint to the finish, it was me. The guy who couldn't continue. Not the man who had so much to live for, who never gave up hope that things would turn out all right.

Ellis made the wrong decision. He died for nothing. His death will be in vain soon and I know how that makes me sound. Try being in my shoes for a second, if you will. I did try to get over him, I did try to move past my grief and guilt and rage and hatred. I couldn't. They consumed me. It was as if my insides were constantly being doused in battery acid. The acid continued eating away at me until there was nothing left. It was a slow burn, insanely painful, and nothing could quench it. Two years of that.

My sleep at night is shitty. No matter what, I'm always retracing my steps during the infection. Always the same paths. Nothing new ever happens. I can't escape it. It always ends at the off-ramp, with that look.

I should've stayed. Why didn't we both make a stand? Why did I turn my back and hobble on? Why? We could've died together.

I can see it now, as clearly as I see this screen in front of me. Ellis is rushing back to meet the infected and despite my injury I catch up to him. Grab his shoulder. His face is white, his pupils huge. He's shaking, his jaw is twitching. There's a look of utter shock on his face.

"Nick –"

"I can't live without you."

As simple as that. That's all that would've needed to be said. Ellis wouldn't've argued. He'd know it was the absolute truth. Perhaps we would've turned back and somehow survived the whole ordeal. Who knows where we'd be now, then. Living together somewhere, I like to think. Or not. Who knows. We both might've lived but I still could've ended up where I am now, alone.

Maybe I wouldn't say that.

"I love you."

"I'm not worth it."

I think I'm more partial to

"You're a fucking dumbass if you think you can take on a Tank and a hoard by yourself. Obviously you need my assistance."

I'm smiling. It's the first time in what feels like ages. Maybe I'd forgotten how. No reason to do so anymore.

I wish this could have a happy ending for all, this story of mine. Not for you, though. There'll be bits of brain and blood you'll have to clean up, and for that I do apologize. I don't have access to pills or anything else that's quick. I don't want pain. I think I've had more than my share of that, thank you.

This is my happy ending, however. No more sleepless nights. No more day dreams. No more regrets. One huge reason to smile, that's for sure. I can finally move past this. It's been two years. I think it's time.

-Nick


End file.
